Plague Saint [REMOVING FOR PUBLICATION JUNE 1]

Chapter Eight: The Trolley Problem

"It's a hospital." Winter stood up. "I have to drop something off at the guard station, but I'll try to find some books or something to bring you tomorrow."

"Thank you." River leaned back against his pillows. "Try not to let the station suck any more soul out of you, all right?"

Winter rolled her eyes. "Will do." Her hand wrapped around the locket, and she hesitated. "Look, why don't you just take the locket while you're in here—"

"Nope. No way. I have to win it back fair and square," River insisted. "Those are the rules."

"If you say so. Good night. Love you."

"Love you too!" River called, his voice hoarse enough to make Winter wince as she walked out the door.

This would be her first time entering the station since quitting. She'd told them she'd been offered a job at the hospital in reception when she left, and now the lie would actually come in handy. Assuming no one asked too many questions.

And assuming she could keep it together long enough to drop off a simple envelope.

She also had Phoebe to worry about. She'd told her to wait outside in her note, but if she decided to come in anyway, Winter's entire story would be shattered to pieces.

Winter stepped through the doors and walked to the front desk. "I have a delivery from the hospital. Plague Saint sent it, to be specific."

Beth looked up at her and smiled. "Winter! How's working at the hospital?"

"Busy," Winter said curtly. She held out the envelope. "Plague Saint sent this for Captain Perry, about the Adams case."

Beth nodded. "I'll get it to him. Good to see you!"

"You too," Winter mumbled before turning around and leaving.

She stood in front of the guard station and sucked in a breath of frigid air. The occasional flake of snow drifted lazily past her face, and Winter wished she could give this terrible weather the plague and make it go away.

Yikes, okay. Calm down. Winter adjusted her coat. All she had to do was put up with Phoebe's investigation for maybe an hour, and then she could go home and sleep.

Phoebe came around the corner about five minutes later. Winter took a deep breath, straightened her coat, and approached her. "Phoebe Blackburn?"

Phoebe spun to face her. "Oh! Winter? Winter Pierce?"

Winter nodded.

Phoebe stuck out a hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Winter was taken aback by Phoebe's eagerness and strong handshake. "Um, right. The Plague Saint told me you had some questions for a few families of some recently deceased. You thought maybe there was something else at play?"

Phoebe nodded. "A lot of them should have recovered but took a strange turn for the worse. At first I thought it was this new white plague people are spreading rumors about, but now I think it might be a person responsible."

"And what led you to that conclusion?" Winter drew a folded piece of paper from her coat pocket and handed it to Phoebe. "Those are the addresses. Lead the way, I'll follow."

"Thanks." Phoebe scanned the page for a moment before gesturing for Winter to follow her north. "The reason I think there's a killer is because my uncle was one of the victims."

"Oh." Winter shoved her hands into her coat pockets. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Something flickered across Phoebe's face. Not sadness—hesitation? Concern? "Thank you. He was a scientist, working on cures for the plagues. He's the one who first told me about the possible existence of a white plague."